


Golden Memories

by MadameBizarre



Series: The King and Queen of the Klondike [3]
Category: Disney - All Media Types, Disney Duck Universe, Disney Ducks (Comics), DuckTales (Cartoon 1987)
Genre: Childhood Memories, Comic: The Life and Times of Scrooge McDuck, F/M, Story time with Golide, Written back in 2015 now im cutting it short so i can post it because I like it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-12
Updated: 2020-05-12
Packaged: 2021-03-03 03:26:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,679
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24138085
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MadameBizarre/pseuds/MadameBizarre
Summary: It’s after a few days that she starts to absently talk -- almost as if he is not even there. But who else could she be addressing other than him?
Relationships: Scrooge McDuck/"Glittering" Goldie O'Gilt
Series: The King and Queen of the Klondike [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/249076
Kudos: 18





	Golden Memories

It’s after a few days that she starts to absently talk -- almost as if he is not even there. But who else could she be addressing other than him? Not the snow, not the pickaxe, and definitely not the small animals that pass her way. So Scrooge decides that he might as well listen, and enjoy the cadence of her voice as he works nearby.

“I wasn’t born in this area.” The first time she pipes up, it is enough to make him jump. He turns his head to her, his pickaxe ready to heave up. 

She’s working mechanically, and he can’t see her face, yet he knows by her tone of voice that her eyes are glossy, and her mind is not with him at his claim, but rather elsewhere -- where she isn’t a singer nor a prisoner.

“I was raised on a farm with my ma and pa. We’ve had that farm for a awhile now, ever since grandma and grandpa immigrated from the old country -- that’s what they’ve always referred to it by. Something about the crops back at home becoming withered and a famine. I never asked much of it.”

She snorted, then spat off to the side; Scrooge almost laughed at how un-ladylike it was. It seemed like she was a whole other person --  _ almost,  _ anyways.

“They got some land after working hard in...I think England, if I remember…. and they put pa and uncle to work to build a farm. Pa said he met mom when she was working at a shabby saloon. She was the only pretty lookin’ thing there.” She stopped for a moment, head lifting to look beyond the trees that enclosed them in White Agony Creek. Almost as if she could see right through their thick trunks, like she was searching for something that was not there. A once cozy town that she perhaps called home -- or that was what Scrooge assumed, anyways.

“I miss that farm….”

And that was the end of it. She talked no more unless he told her to do a different task, and when she did speak up with foul words, she was back to her regular self...or what she had people believe was herself. It was so easy to trick people nowadays with a simple facade, he had been victim to it a few times before. There was no reason  _ not  _ to believe the woman was wearing a mask to conceal her true nature, and Scrooge believed it. There was nothing else to do,  _ but  _ play her little game of faces. The world’s game of deceit.

She spoke again two days later, and Scrooge was confused as to what she was saying until he remembered her recollections not long ago. He scrambled to remember that day, and to connect the pieces of her story so far.

“Ma was one of the prettiest wives that little spittoon of a town had ever seen. She had saved up a pretty penny for the wedding, and pa sold my great-aunt’s old golden tooth for more money -- it was genuine golden! She claimed to have gotten it made from her rich, European fiance, but we ain’t never seen no man nor woman by her side.” She laughs softly, bending over to rub a bit of snow from the ore she is reaping.

“We have only one photo of the wedding, and I last saw it on the mantle by the door where we have bunches of old paintings and pictures. I always liked to stare at it when no one was lookin’....My ma’s dress is collecting dust up in our attic….”

She says no more, and she throws the pickaxe down with a might that almost breaks it in half.

“My blisters are scorchin’! I need to soak’em!” Her angry face turns to him, raising and uncurling her hands to show him the redness of her palms.

He tells her to go ahead and use the bucket he filled only moments ago. He bandages her hands later that day, frowning at every cringe and hiss she makes; he thought she’d be bawling at the pain, but it looks more like she’s used to it and knows how to withstand the burning. Her hands are not dainty now -- he still thinks they are -- but he also is aware of how strong they are. Her hands laid upturned in his own a little longer after the bandaging was done, and he dared to rub his thumbs over her knuckles. After a few strokes, she pulls them away and leaves him kneeling at the rock she sat on.

Scrooge loses count of days when she talks, even though they are not far apart, and in the future he only recounts them as moments in that long month together. 

Her next continuation of the story is his favorite: “Ma and pa have seven, goddamn kids. All of’em boys, but one. Six boys with hair varying from blond, to black, who all grow up to be big, burly men who can take down a bull with their bare hands. The only gal is me, third from the youngest….”

She stands erect and looks at him, almost expectantly, and he’s bent over his spot with dark dirt smudges on his cheeks, staring right back at her like an imbecile.

“Aren’t ya’ gonna ask their names?” She inquires, obviously finding his lack of feedback as rude.

“Not my place to.” Scrooge replies calmly, feeling his hands sweat at her glowing gaze.

“Well fine then,” She turns back to her work. “Didn’t wanna tell you anyways.” It’s almost a childish remark.

It’s quiet in that moment, he finds himself concluding that she is done for the day, but then she continues. “I was gonna be named Jaqueline, but pa said he was gonna name his next son Silver, so it was only right for him to give a similar name to me. What’s just, if not more, expensive and rare as silver? Gold, and that’s my name.”

_ “Who’d a thought it’d match you well.”  _ He thinks to himself, eyes still on her as they both work in tandem across from one another -- he having moved to the same ore deposit so they could finish it faster. He’s happy she is too preoccupied with her memories to notice, though. 

She doesn’t go on for the remainder of the day.

The continuation is when they are checking his traps for any unwanted visitors, and he has her tied to him at the wrist by a foot-long piece of rope -- lest she run off without him noticing. He makes sure she has no sharp items on her by making her wear his spare jacket as a shirt (there is no place she can hide something within it….unless she is using her cleavage, anyways), and a shotgun is tight in his grip.

“Didn’t know you had a gun.” Is what she says before her story begins.

“I have to stay safe, I store it in the other boxes. I’ve got some dynamite too.”

She sighs, and it’s quiet. The only sounds are of the bird chirping, the trees rustling in the wind, and the occasionally treading of wildlife.

“I remember when pa used to teach me how to how to tend for the animals.”

He doesn’t mind her rambling, even though they are trying to catch any trespassers. Maybe she could even lure someone out with the beauty that is her voice.

“We had horses, cows, chickens, roosters, a few pigs, and one lazy ass dog that didn’t love anyone as much as she did me. Every mornin’ I would wake up, help ma in the kitchen, then run off to check the hen house and feed’em. Then I’d go around and feed the other animals alongside my brothers. I made sure the boys put the proper amount of food since they liked to slack off in the morning chores.”

Her voice changes to a sullen octave. “One winter….we were snowed in, and I had to hurry with the animals -- ya know, putting blankets on them, making sure the food is accessible for’em…..but the damn dog never made it inside. We heard her barking nearby, and I was crying up a storm -- I loved the dog like I loved my own mother….it was a choice then for me: the dog, or my ma. She had wrapped herself up and was leaving out the door, I only had one chance to tell her to stop….my poor mother…”

Scrooge looks over his shoulder, his heart racing as he suddenly feels empathy for her -- it is short-lived, though, as he sees she is looking off to the side and smiling (even chuckling to herself in silence). 

“She was all riled up, ready to be my hero, but me and my brothers stopped her. The stupid dog lived too, she dug her way under the farmhouse and made it through that harsh winter.”

He sighs irritably, then tugs the rope at his wrist, jerking her along with him; she yelps and smacks his back. Damn, tricky, woman.

“Around that time I had started to become mature, and ma introduced me to makeup. I’ll never forget the day she let me wear her favorite lipstick. It was in a golden tube, and I could watch her for hours getting ready, and my favorite part would be how elegantly she rolled on that red color.”

And at that point….Scrooge could scarcely remember what she said next, or after. The stories seem to blur in his mind, despite them not being many….or maybe it's that he does not wish to remember, because the mere thought of her voice sets him a melancholy mood that gives no space for adventuring. No motivation to do anything really, so he pushes them away for another day. Another year. Another century -- perhaps another time when he can no longer get out of bed. Then he’ll reminisce, and her stories will lull him to sleep where she awaits him in dreams.

  
  
  



End file.
